


I GotYour Man(and you can't do anything)

by roxymissrose



Category: Smallville
Genre: AU, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-07
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:16:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>just the merest smidgeon of porn</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I GotYour Man(and you can't do anything)

"What do you want to do now?"

"I don't know…get something to eat?" Clark tossed his books into the back of the truck cab, squashing some drink cups and an empty pizza box. "You're kind of a slob, Whit."

"Doesn’t matter—I'm hot." Whit grinned at him, and Clark could only roll his eyes. Sure, Whit was hot, but Clark wasn't about to agree with him—Whit's ego was big enough, thank you. Plus there was the likelihood that Whit would slug him, buddies or not.

"Really, Whit? *I* don't think so," Clark said, and glanced over. Whit was flashing him a bright, sunny smile—but for a second, Clark thought he'd seen hurt. He looked right into Whit's face. Those bright blue eyes were full of nothing but laughter and Clark was sorry that he was seeing things that weren't really there. He wanted Whit to be hurt—but wanting that was mean and stupid of him. "I—I—didn't mean it like that."

Whit laughed. "Like what, Kent? I have to tell you, if you did think I was hot, I'd kind of worry about you."

Clark laughed along with Whit, surprised it sounded as real as it did, considering his throat felt like he'd just swallowed a brick. There was something to be happy about though—he was happy Whit wasn't a meteor mutant, because with his luck, Whit would have the power of reading minds, and the power of drop-kicking Clark out of his truck. "Ha ha. Whit plus jokes equal good time. Or not."

Whit threw him another bright grin, and winked. Open windows made it hard to talk over the roar of the wind, so Clark just leaned against the seat back and watched the fields flash by. They were on the outskirts of Smallville before Whit slowed down again.

"Stop at McCrory's and get some ice-cream, or a hotdog?" Whit asked and Clark nodded, surprised they didn’t just head into the Beanery. Though McCrory's did have the best dogs ever and he could go for ice-cream…crap. Clark lifted his hips off the seat and squeaked when the truck swerved.

"Shit! Suicidal bird," Whit explained when Clark glared at him, and then asked slowly, "Kent…what the fuck are you doing?"

"Sorry--I—I'm looking for money?" He dropped back on the seat. "Sorry. And I'm broke, Whit, so maybe we can just get cokes at my house?"

"Eh," Whit waved his hand. "Don’t worry about it—I got it. Just—don’t go jumping around in the cab anymore, okay? It's…distracting." Whit scowled at the road and Clark nodded.

"Yes, okay. And sorry."

Whit huffed. "Clark, man—stop apologizing. It's okay. And get what you want," he said, pulling onto the wide dirt apron in front of McCrory's.

Whit drove around the big dirt lot, looking for a space. There were lots of trucks and cars parked there already—McCrory's was a popular warm weather hangout, and everyone was taking advantage of the unseasonably warm weather. The line in front of the ice-cream stand. done up to look like a barn, went to the street and little kids darted in and out of it, screaming for their parents to take them to see the calves leaning against the fence separating the working part of the farm from the public part.

Clark slid out of the truck as soon as Whit came to a stop, not waiting even though he heard Whit's door open. Eyes on the ground, he hurried over to the takeout window. He passed a group of guys hanging around one of the trucks—Whit's former team mates, Whit's friends. They cast eyes at Clark but no one greeted him--they all greeted Whit, wondered where he was, why wasn't he hanging out with them. Clark ignored the voices, ignored Whit's answer. He stared blankly at the menu card until he realized…he had enough money for maybe a glass of naked ice and that was about it. He blinked hard, blushed when the woman behind the window raised her eyebrows and asked, "Ordering some time today, hon?"

"No—no, sorry, I—"

He gulped when something hit him from behind, remembering at the last second to go with it.

"Kent! I leave you for half a second and you’re gone. What'd you order?"

"Nothing," Clark said, "I thought…."

Whit's expression cycled through puzzlement, understanding, annoyance, and finally to some kind of soft look Clark just didn't get. He shoved a handful of bills in Clark's hand—probably way more than what they needed, Clark thought. He imagined that Whit's fingers lingered a second…."I told you, get something, Clark. Order us two hotdogs—apiece--and a couple of cokes. I'm going to pull the truck up around the back. Find us a place to sit?"

The back of McCrory's was a wide, grassy area with picnic tables, a little swing set and a hoop at one end of the field and a horse shoe pit at the other. Clark met Whit as he climbed out of the truck again.

"Small town America," he sneered at the screaming kids on the playground, the frazzled parents running after them. "Can’t beat it."

Clark rolled his eyes and smiled. Whit acted like he thought it was stupid, but Clark knew—Whit loved his town. Loved it now, anyway. They headed towards an empty, fairly clean table. Whit made his way carefully through the crowd, Clark following and trying to be unobtrusive about running interference for Whit.

When they settled at their table, Whit sat with his back to the parking lot. Clark smiled. Figured it meant that Whit was not at home to any company but his and that felt…pretty damn good.

Whit was a surprise to Clark. He'd expected…well, not this, not this friendship. Whit was proving to be a much more interesting guy than Clark thought possible. He was funny, and kind, and soft spoken, when he wasn't being sarcastic and bitchy and barking at people…

"What? I've got something?" Whit asked and wiped at his face. Clark shook his head no.

"Just thinking. I thought when we pulled up…"

"I know what you thought. Those guys—I have to talk to them, they used to be my team—I want them to know I'm okay with this—that I'm dealing." Whit slapped his hand down on his busted knee and Clark winced. "I'm okay listening to them talk about the games, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend every second with them. I like you, Kent. You're funny, and a good guy, when you’re not pretending to be Mother Theresa."

"Hunh?"

"You need to lighten up, dude. It suits you, smiling. You act like you've got the world on your shoulders…" Whit stopped and looked pained. "I mean…crap. There's nothing wrong at home or stuff, is there? I'm sorry if I--"

"Oh, no, Whit—well, no more than usual. Money's tight right now, but it's not a big deal. So what if there's no Air Jordans for me?" Clark smirked. "I don’t have to buy bagged sneakers in the bin at the mart, so…"

Whit laughed out loud, and Clark shivered inside. He watched Whit's eyes sparkle like sunlight on the lake. He wanted to kiss Whit so bad, every part of him hurt. He wanted to touch him, smell him…and that wasn't happening in a million years. He'd thought when Whit came back to town on a medical discharge that they'd go back to fencing over Lana but somehow, Whit ended up inching into Clark's life, slowly but surely becoming a friend he could count on, someone who only wanted Clark to be…Clark. And it was like a long swallow of cool, cool, water.

Except for this one thing.

Before Whit, he'd thought that maybe…it was only Lex. Because it'd started when he found himself watching Lex's rear when he wore those tight, tailored, slinky trousers.

But.

No.

He'd found out he was just as willing to watch Whit's baggy jean clad butt and hope fervently that Whit was going to drop something so he could watch the fabric pull tight and…and….

Clark took a bite of hotdog and chewed for his life.

He was pretty sure Lex knew. Lex smirked at him when he walked across the room, but then again, Lex smirked at everything. Lex drank water with a smirk. Lex…probably knew what was going on better than Clark did, and Lex nailed chicks too. Lex must be bisexual. Which meant he was getting twice the amount of ass Clark wasn't. Mortified at the sudden turn his thoughts had taken, Clark's throat snapped up tight around a bit of hotdog. He wheezed, turned bright red, and thought how glad he was that he had a good reason to blush because what had been in his mind wasn't Lex, but Whit, naked and posed like those guys at the Raging Dicks site or whatever the hell it'd been called…

Whit was pounding his back like crazy and Clark hadn't even noticed until he swallowed and by then, Whit was rubbing little circles into his shoulder blades and Clark's dick was saying, 'hey, remember that _randy young studs_ shoot last week on your favorite naughty website? Remember how we were hard as steel? Well—hellooo…'

"Are you okay, Clark?"

Clark nodded frantically, and whipped his shoulders around until Whit's hand went flying, leaving only a fading warm spot on his back. Whit sat quickly, plopped himself down and grabbed his hotdog and bit so hard, Clark winced a bit.

Great, now he'd offended Whit…well, better that than chance Whit getting an eyeful of his…problem.

"Wow, excuse me for not wanting to have to drag your huge corpse home to your mom. I'm pretty sure I'd miss out on the good cookies if I brought her son home choked to death. I'll remember not to whack you next time you choke…or…wait; did I hit you too hard?"

"Ah, ha-ha, no, no—" Clark tried to laugh, but his shoulders were still burning with Whit's touch, his concern, his very hot, very soothing hands rubbing into his skin…"Thank you, I was okay but thank you."

"Yeah…all right. Ice-cream on the way home?"

Clark brightened up right away. "Ice cream, yeah, and I'll pay you back, promise."

Whit looked at him weird and licked his lips. "I know you're good for it. I just wish you wouldn't worry about it."

The way Whit smiled at him made Clark feel like Christmas had come early. He just wished he could unwrap the package. Clark sighed, a tiny little internal sigh. Okay, he thought, really? No more on-line porn. It was affecting the whole way he saw the world, and it wasn't as funny as his dick would like to think….

* * * * * *

That night, Whit crept into his room, tall, blonde, sexy Whit, built like a god, or at least like those guys on the site—no, screw that—better. His skin rippled as he moved; looked smooth as silk…a trail of dark hair crept down from his navel and thickened around his cock, the dark a stark contrast against his pale, creamy skin. He flexed and Clark groaned. Ran his hand over his own cock, squeezing hard as he worked his fist towards the tip, watched as Whit did the same. Every move Clark made Whit mirrored. Licked his palm when Clark did, worked his fist up and down his cock, collected precome in the web of his thumb and sucked it off. Clark's dick jumped, dripped…"this is the best one yet," he groaned, his hips snapping off the bed. He rolled his balls in his hand, pulled down and grunted, yeah…hissed when Whit smirked and started fucking his fist.

'Yeah, come on Clark, come on, suck me.' Clark jammed a couple of fingers into his mouth and sucked hard, sucked like getting an A depended on how wet he could get those fingers, ignored the drool that escaped the corners of his mouth because Whit loved when he did that. Clark closed his eyes and Whit shoved soaking wet fingers up his ass, teasing the rim of his hole, whispering really nasty stuff in his ear that later Clark was going to have to come up with some dirty things for Whit to whisper but right now, stars were exploding behind his eyelids and his balls were drawing up tight and…and his hand was slipping fast as shit, he was so wet and his dick swelled, tightened and then he was coming all over his stomach while Whit crooned 'what a good boy' in his ear.

"Fuuuuu…" Clark moaned. *That* had been the best fantasy yet. He lay there with rapidly cooling come, thick and slippery, all over his stomach, a loopy smile pasted on his face. He was starting to slip away into a peaceful sleep when a sharp stab of guilt brought him wide awake again. He sighed, grabbed a t-shirt off the floor and wiped up the mess he'd made. His cheeks burned—thank god Whit didn't know what he did in Clark's room late at night. Was it wrong to imagine your best friend joining you in incredible orgasms? Or fucking you into one, Clark wondered. He rolled to his side, pulled up his knees and shoved one hand under his pillow, stuck the other between his thighs and sighed like the wind.

Tomorrow. He'd feel bad about it tomorrow. Right now, his ass felt great and he was still loose and warm and felt like he was made of taffy....

The room got darker, the air warmer, and somewhere in some shiny, bright, happy place, Whit and he played in a big, warm, lavender lake, and gave each other lots of perfect blowjobs and there were apple pies stacked everywhere….


	2. I got your man...

Whit hummed along to some song on the radio, he wasn't quite sure what the thing was about but he suspected it has something to do with ass and how to get up in there…he had no idea. The station was something Clark had tuned to last time he was in the truck….

Whit glanced at the passenger seat and chuckled…a little warm star flared inside him and he straight out laughed. Clark had almost killed them the last time he was in the truck. When he'd reared up off the seat like that….

Whit shook his head. This thing he felt for Clark…before he'd graduated, back when Lana was all he wanted to think of, Clark was. He was. Whit screwed his mouth tight; the last little bubble of laughter gone—stared down the road like the movie of his life was playing there. Clark was what? Besides dangerous. He'd had almost broken Whit's perfect world into bits. He'd had it all planned out—career, wife, big house, big car, his dad telling him he knew he'd make it and how proud he was and better than that, envy in his eyes.

Yeah, it would've been sweet, but that all changed. Whit lost everything he'd planned. It all poured through his hands like water—he'd fucked up his scholarship, Dad fucked him up by dying, service fucked up his leg and lost him mall hope of football, the Marines—all fucked up. And now…fuck everything he'd ever thought he wanted. There was on thing he hoped to salvage out of all that. All he needed was that one thing.

Whit rolled the windows down lower and turned the radio up higher and let the scream of wind and sound blank his mind.

M&Ms. Maybe Clark would like some M&Ms…no, he probably liked those little fruity candies. Cool—they made great projectiles if you spit 'em hard enough. Not that he knew anyone immature enough to do something like that.

* * * * * *

Whit poked up and down the aisles of the FastStop, juggling a bag of M&Ms, a package of HoHos and trying to decide between fruit or sour Skittles. His fifth turn around the tight narrow shelves had the clerk shouting, "For cryin' out loud—there's not that much stuff here—choose somethin' and get the eff out!"

"Fuck you, Craig," Whit laughed.

Craig leaned out over the high counter. "What…Skittles and HoHos? Bitch, they don't make effing Trojans in teeny-tiny, so stop lookin'."

"Oh fuck you." He hesitated for a moment, looking back at the candy isle, shrugged and tucked a box of condoms under his pile of death by sugar, glanced around and grabbed a travel size bottle of lube, too. He slammed the pile on the counter, and Craig shook his head.

"You're kind of old for the whole 'hide the rubbers under the fun size bag of candy' aren't you?"

"You're kind of young to be my grandma all in my business aren’t you?"

Craig rung him up, tossed the bag at his head. "Have fun. Don't mistake the HoHos for the lube…then again, she might like that."

"You're really funny, in a traffic accident kind of way."

"Your mother's funny."

"See? You have a gift."

* * * * * *

Whit was grinning as he drove towards the school when about half way there, it hit him—what he'd bought. His mouth dropped and he swallowed against the sudden dryness. "Holy shit…" he muttered, "holy shit." He blinked hard and laughed, kind of weakly. Well, the rubbers would come in handy, eventually, in some kind of way. Maybe. He sighed. God knows the lube would. That Jergen's shit…it was getting so he couldn't stand the smell of it. He glanced at his hands, tight as vise grips on the wheel. His hands were softer than they'd ever been….

With a last blast of some kind of weird song, and a low moan and squeak that came from somewhere under the front of the truck and was beginning to make him nervous and wish he'd taken an automotive class, he pulled up in the visitors lot and parked. He hadn't been to the school since graduation, not even to look up Lana, but here he was. He glanced at the bulging plastic bag on the passenger's side. Poked it. Took the candy out and rolled up the bag and shoved it under the seat between his feet. He wasn't arranging the candy. He was just…"For shit's sake," Whit muttered. "Be more of a…whatever you are."

The engine ticked and pocked as it cooled, and he reached out for the door handle when the air was full of some kind of noise he figured was meant to be music, all weird moaning instruments and no bass line—he glanced up and caught a convertible Porsche in his rearview. It pulled past him and into the bus lanes, and parked.

Figured…Lex.

Clark's billionaire friend, poor little fucking rich boy. Whit grit his teeth and his knuckles went white as he gripped the steering wheel in a strangle hold. He hated that fucker. What the hell was he doing…Clark said he wanted a ride but maybe…he hadn't meant Whit?

Clark came out of the school, stopped at the edge of the stairs. He lifted his backpack higher and suddenly ran down the stairs, waving. Whit almost lifted his hand to wave before blushing. No way Clark could see him in the lot, not at this angle. But it let Whit watch unobserved. He watched Lex pull himself up and out of the car, like a…fuck, like a cat. He oozed out onto the asphalt and trotted up to meet Clark. They stopped, Lex tilted his head and Clark threw his head back—he was laughing. Whit knew that move. He shook his head and Lex nodded—threw something at Clark and turned. Clark ran after, threw it back. Whit watched, wrinkled brow and then he got it. Keys. Fucking Lex was tossing Clark the keys to his fucking Porsche. Whit looked down at the faded, dusty dash of his truck, so old a truck that it had a tape deck in it. Would it make a difference if Clark knew he was getting a CD player in it…he'd be impressed. All Lex probably had satellite radio and…"Really, Whit? Really?" He settled into silence again, his teeth ripped at his lip as he watched Clark and his friend.

Lex pivoted to say something to Clark and he flowed through the air like water, and Whit could imagine Lex, tall and slim and smooth, perfect, probably cut abs, gym work—unblemished skin wrapping thick muscles in his thighs, and calves, perfect to run your hands over, legs that could spread and wrap around Clark's hips, and Lex wouldn’t have to work up to it in stages, and Lex's knee wouldn't pop and crack and feel like it was filled with burning glass and give out when he needed it…didn't look like raw hamburger had been spackled over bone, Lex's leg didn't look like some thing had tried to take ragged chunks out of his calf.

Lex leaped up and into the car, and shrugged when Clark tossed the key at him a final time and then, he got in the car and they drove away.

Whit sat in his truck, opened the M&Ms and wondered how long it would take him to eat the whole bag, and if he could do it without vomiting. He filled his mouth with the candy bits and eyes the Skittles. He fucking hated Skittles.

 

Whit walked up the thankfully few stairs to the world's smallest, darkest, ugliest apartment, and threw his coat against the wall. The object had been to toss it on the couch…it knocked the cane leaning against the wall there to the floor. "Bitch," he hissed. Wasn't sure if he meant the coat, or the cane, or…something else. He hobbled towards the fridge, he'd overdone it today, driving too long and walking too long without the cane, and…he sighed. Having too big a fit, Jesus, like a ten year-old. He grinned ruefully at himself, and snagged a beer from the sixer hiding behind a jug of ice-tea, next to a liquidy head of lettuce, the only items on the lower shelf of the fridge. "Say good-bye to your friend the dead lettuce," he murmured, and popped the top. Dead lettuce, old bread, a crusty bottle of ketchup…might be time to go food shopping. There was a half carton of eggs and. A couple of slices of fake cheese. He narrowed his eyes. "Hmm, there's a couple of egg sandwiches—nah, sucks without bacon." Maybe he should drop some pride and let his mom do food shopping for him like she'd been nagging. The thought of dragging himself around the food store made the M&Ms dance uncomfortably in his gut. Hell no. He'd call his mom. Later.

He was settled on the couch, and staring at the TV, his one indulgence. Cable…it was a godsend. Mostly at times like this. His boxers were pushed down, the worn band loose around his hips, his hand in his lap, watching the screen. The sound was turned down—the walls were like tissue and the neighbors reminded him of one of those movie families where they all intermarried and ate strangers they kidnapped off the road….

His dick was starting to take an interest in the complicated scene writhing away on the screen. Two anxious looking guys and a bored looking chick…good enough, he thought. He eased his knee to the side, slicked up his hand with a thick spurt of the lube he'd bought. He rubbed his palm quick and slick along the length of his dick and sighed. Dropped his head back and stroked loose and teasing, watching the action through narrowed eyes. His dick thumped in his hand when the guys kissed—brief and messy before concentrating on the girl, but all it took was that kiss for his dick to drool all over his hand. Whit stroked harder, tighter, and lost all interest in the actors....

He pictured Clark in the truck, jerking up like he had but this time, naked from the waist down, and with a purpose—driving his dick into the back of Whit's throat. He'd gotten plenty of blowjobs, kind of—how hard could it be? Fantasy Clark was loving it, at least. Whit laughed and groaned and let the sound of his dick flying wetly through the tight circle of his fist drive him on. He groaned loud, long, the sound spiraling up out of control along with his orgasm…he jerked and grunted and spilled over his fist, strings of come dripped from his dick, his hand, to plop thick and wet across the twitching muscles of his stomach. He let out a long satisfied groan and smiled--and jumped at the frantic knocking at his door.

Fuck, fuck—if it was his mom, he was going to throw himself down the stairs. He levered himself upward, grabbed a sock off the floor and wiped as quick and as thoroughly as possible. He yanked up his boxers and whipped his robe closed. "Coming! Coming!"

By the time he staggered into the door, he was red-faced, sweating, and too aware that he was in a robe and his shorts and nothing else.

"What? Kent?" _What the fuck._

"Hey! Where were you at school? I looked and I didn’t see you, but then Lex came so I went with him—I thought you were going to pick me up but--and then—why are you in your underwear, Whit? Are you sick? I mean…" Clark flushed so red it made Whit want to laugh. "Were you going to sleep, or, taking a bath or—"

A low, suggestive moaning broke into Clark's speed freak monologue, and both of them looked to the source of the sound. It took Whit only a moment to untangle the remote from the folds of his ratty old robe and shut the TV off…but it was more than enough time to treat Clark to an eye-opening look at the money shot…hunh. Whit was impressed. Cable pay for porn was a lot more interesting—a soft cough broke into his thoughts.

"Oh! You were—" Clark turned an impossibly deeper shade of red. Whit thought that was cute, and a little scary.

"Yeah, most guys would've just let it go, Kent. But thanks for ratcheting up the uncomfy vibe."

"I—I—I—" Clark blinked, took a breath and shoved a wide, flat, cold box at him. "I brought pizza." He held up a bag, "and soda."

Whit blinked. "You interrupted my evening for freezer case pizza and no-name soda? Really?"

Clark took a step back. Blinked and swallowed. "Yeah, um. Okay. You…here." He shoved the box at Whit, who grabbed it out of reflex, dropped the bag holding the bottle and staggered a few steps back. "Sorry," Clark said, and he was gone in the blink of an eye.

Whit dropped the box on the floor, tripped over the bottle rolling around on the ground and clipped his hip against the counter. Pain shot down his leg and made his mouth explode in acid. "Ow, God damn it, *shit*!"

Fuck. What the fuck just happened? How in the hell did he just screw up what had the making of a great evening?

"I'll fix it. I can fix it."

* * * * * *

"Hey, Clark…look, about earlier, I didn't mean it the way it sounded. I was glad you came, really."

"Oh, I figured. I was just—hah—too embarrassed to come back. Sorry. I mean, sorry for apologizing. Except this time I really should, right?"

"Clark. Why don’t you come on back and we'll have the pizza and—"

"Oh, thanks Whit, but after I left your place I ended up over at Lex's—to talk and stuff, and I ate over there—he had his cook make this incredible pizza—"

"Yeahm really? That's great," Whit said and drove a fork into the steaming pizza sitting on the kitchen counter. "That's great. Really, Lex is a good guy," he said, and stabbed the pizza few more times, imagined a slice of pepperoni as Lex's heart and stabbed it some more, until the tines of the fork were curled and splayed. He threw it out the kitchenette window.

"What's that noise?"

"Look, Clark, gotta go—I got friends waiting. Nice talking to you, though. Bye."

"Wait—"

Whit hung up the phone and whipped it at the couch. It bounced high, end over end, and slid into the darkness under the TV stand. "Fuck my life," he muttered and scraped what was left of the pizza onto a plate. "I hate store pizza," he yelled.

He ate it all.


	3. ...and you can't do anything

III  
"Clark, letting yourself fall for Luthor is the worst idea ever in the history of ideas. Sure, he seems like a good guy but he has problems—and plans for you that don't—Clark, Lex is a decent enough guy but that's just it—he's *just* barely decent. He's not good enough. He doesn't understand you—not saying I do, but you and me, we're more alike than—I mean geez, six hundred dollar shirts and hundred dollar pizzas--*FUCK*!"

Whit dropped his head against the mirror. "Ouch." He rubbed the heel of his hand over his forehead and sighed. Okay, maybe going that route sucked. But he had to talk to Clark. Clark had to know how Whit felt. And as soon as Whit figured it out, he was going to tell Clark. He'd walk right up to him; lay his cards on the table. Spell it out; let Clark know that…that…shit. Maybe not talking to him was the smart thing to do.

Whit shoved his hands in the pockets of his threadbare robe, and limped out to the kitchen-living-dinning room, the ratty belt of his robe trailing him like a tail. He made coffee and sat at the tiny table, his leg stretched out in front of him, his calf taunting him by burning, throbbing. His treacherous mind kept replaying that scene of Lex leaping out of his car in a way that should have been corny as hell but even Whit had to admit it'd been kind of hot. Screw it; Luthor was hot as hell but--still. The man was a pretentious asshole and how did Clark not see it? Love. Whit gulped a huge mouthful of coffee and wrestled it down his throat. Love makes you blind—and stupid, and blind. And stupid.

He was washed, dressed, and ready to get something for breakfast that didn't involve the use of a toaster. He rinsed out the coffee pot and tossed the used filter. He went to the niche he laughingly referred to as the hall closet; reached past his letter jacket for the coat he wore now. His fingers grazed the leather sleeves of his old jacket, and he sighed—again. Life sure had seemed easier back then, before Dad got sick, before…before waking up every morning with a hard-on and Clark's name stuttering out of his mouth. Clark was the best thing ever happened to him and the worst.

And then there was Lex, who no doubt was the worst.

Whit had his coat on and he was about to fish his keys out of the bowl on the kitchen counter when there was a solid rap at his door, a no nonsense kind of thumping that had the old wood door shuddering in its frame.

"Hold up, I'm coming," he called and cursed when he ran his bad knee into the couch.

"Whitney--watch out for your knee," he heard through the door and he hesitated. First of all, how had they known, and second, was that Clark? It sounded like Clark. He gripped his keys tighter. He had a busy day planned for today…he didn't have time to waste listening to Clark going on and on about his very good friend Lex and all the fun he was having with him. Besides Saturday was the only day he'd scheduled to do paperwork for the overstock that needed to be transferred….

"I know you're in there, I can hear you breathing…and cursing."

"Oh, now you're judging my language? It hurt hitting that couch you know. Besides, you're not my mother."

"Are we…are we having an argument through the door? Don't you think that's weird?"

No." Whit glared at the door before rolling his eyes. All right, maybe it was a little weird. Kind of like middle school girls having a spat. Whit shook his head. He was losing it in a really ugly way. He unlocked the door and stepped back. "Come on in."

"You sure?" Clark asked uncertainly, the hem of his red tee wrapped around his fingers, exposing a bit of tanned stomach.

 _Skin. Skin. Skin._ "Ski-yes damn it, now come on in before my neighbors decide long pork is what's for dinner and break out their chainsaws."

"All right. Um. What?"

"Never mind. Come on in—please."

Clark came in and Whit was amused at the uneasy distance he put between himself and Whit. Like he could hurt Clark. The guy was made of solid muscle. Solid muscle covered by miles of golden skin, sweet-smelling, sleek and tawny skin that…probably had Lex-prints all over it. "Sit. Or stand. Whatever."

He limped into the kitchenette area and raised the shade, let in the late morning light, and gestured for Clark to take a seat at the table. Whit poured him a glass of tea without asking, feeling some relief he'd actually had something to offer. He sent a silent thank you to his mother and sat to watch Clark enjoy his tea.

Clark set the empty glass down and glared at Whit. Cleared his throat and said, "Look, we seem to be having some kind of misunderstanding. I think. I get the feeling that somehow, I'm screwing something up but I'm not sure…just what I'm screwing up." And for some odd reason Clark blushed the reddest red that Whit had ever seen a human blush. He looked like a boiled lobster, Whit thought.

"Clark," he said kindly, "there's no misunderstanding. You and I are fine. And I'm kind of late for work."

Clark waved his hand. "I know you set your own hours on the weekend, Whit. I'd much rather get this straightened out between the two of us because I miss hanging out with you."

Whit jerked a little, the pleasure Clark's statement gave him was that intense. "You do? I didn't think…I didn't think you even thought about me. I mean, you know, when you hang out with Lex. That I don’t come up. Get thought about." He huffed, made himself shut up. "Yeah."

"Whitney…are you jealous? I mean of my friendship with Lex?"

"Yes…I mean *no*. Not really. I just." He shrugged. "I just don't get it." Whit stood again, and paced the tiny kitchenette. He wiped crumbs off the counter; he ran water into the tiny sink and washed the few glasses and what was left of his silverware. He turned back to catch Clark smiling at him, the way you'd smile fondly at a clever pet. Whit glared back. Clark smiled wider.

"So, are you ready to talk about our friendship? And stuff? And how we should, y'know, be hanging out?"

Whit snorted. "Eloquence Clark. It's obviously your strong point," Whit said and immediately felt like a dick because it was Clark who'd come to his door looking to patch things up when Whit was going to be a coward and ignore the whole thing….

Clark stared at Whit with a solemn, thoughtful kind of look. "You know, Lex doesn't pick on me non-stop like you do. And when we go places, he never makes me pay for gas."

Whit squeezed the damp dishcloth in his hand so hard he was surprised it wasn't dry. Or had turned into diamonds….

"Sometimes, when he asks me over, we watch movies that haven't even come out yet, and his TV is built into the wall like a movie screen…"

Whit glanced over at his new possession, a flat screen TV, thanks very much. So what if it was the size of a Barbie TV? It wasn't like Whit didn't know his whole shitty little apartment could fit in one of Lex's shoeboxes, and that there were somewhat ripe socks shoved down between the cushions of the couch and maybe a pizza box or two under it.

And if Clark didn't stop throwing Lex up in his face…this was helping how?

Clark was still rambling on about his best bud Lex Luthor. Whit sighed and resigned himself to listening.

"…and Lex orders food for us, sometimes it comes from some fancy place in Metropolis. We have whatever I want, when ever I want it. All I have to do is ask."

Whit ground his teeth together and managed to speak without moving them, or his lips…"Yeah, great, fantastic, that's Lex. Sorry, all I have to offer are hotdogs and fucking Skittles."

Clark looked confused for a moment before beaming a smile at Whit that almost made him forget how pissed off he was with Clark and Lex. "Whit--I really, really, like McCrory's hotdogs, better than anything. And I really like the movies we rent, and it's a lot of fun to watch them here. And also, every time I get in your truck, the last station I picked is playing, like, _all_ the time. And you laugh at my lame jokes, and you never ask me anything, but when I want to talk you listen. Even though you're sarcastic as hell I feel how much you care. You really care. And. That means the world to me."

Whit was staring at Clark, open mouthed. It felt like…Clark was saying…"I win?"

"Whit. You're not in competition with Lex. Did you think…I *like* Lex. He's my friend. But you." Again Clark turned that inhumanly bright shade of red. "I'm just going to. Say it. And hope I'm not wrong. I like you a lot. Like, a whole lot. Like, the kind of like—"

"Clark, I like you that kind of like too. I've wished for a long time it could be just you and me, and no one else. Am I making sense? You're--hot." Whit cursed inside and said quickly, "But it's not just that. You know?"

Clark deflated, sagged in his chair so quickly and completely the chair creaked dangerously. "Thank god. I was ready to throw myself down your stupid stairs." He stood, and made a tentative, shy, _please come here_ gesture at Whit and Whit found himself walking to Clark like he was leashed. Clark leaned over and slowly, tentatively pressed his lips to Whit's cheek, giving him plenty of room and time to escape. "Okay?" he asked.

Whit studied Clark, his ocean green eyes, his flushed cheeks, his pink, soft lips, too dry, and too composed by far. He grabbed Clark by the back of the neck and pulled him forward, ignoring Clark's yelp of surprise. He put everything he had into the kiss and then pulled back. "Okay," he panted and Clark shivered from head to toe.

"Oh geez, Whit. That was more than okay."

Whit grinned. He'd made Clark shiver and that was pretty *damn* okay. "I'm glad we're on the same page."

Clark moaned and nodded. "We can turn the pages too, I'm good with that."

"Me too. Ah…I haven't turned many pages, and I've not read much on them…"

"I haven't turned any pages of any kind ever—Whit, can we drop the page thing and just talk?"

"Yes, thank god. And I think we'll be fine. We'll just—wing it."

 

Whit was happy to find out that Clark's concept of winging it was sitting in his lap and kissing until his mouth was almost raw, his lips tingled and burned and his dick ached from pressing against the inside of his jeans. Clark surged against him, lips opening over Whit's, chewing on his lower lip, and then soothing it with long, lazy, licks. He hummed and sucked on Whit's tongue, a hot imitation of fucking that had Whit groaning and licking all over the inside of Clark's mouth. Hot and wet, soft, lips softer than any girl's he'd ever kissed. Whit shuddered and Clark soothed him, stroking huge hands over his back, all the while pressing kisses on Whit's neck, jaw, earlobe, working his way into Whit's mouth again like he had to beg for permission to enter. Like it was new, over and over again. Whit had never kissed anyone like this—or been kissed like this, so single-mindedly, so desperately wanting just from this, wanting so much.

Clark pulled away, gasping out Whit's name as he did. He slid a hand between the two of them and moaned when his fingers brushed the thick bulge of Whit's erection. "I'm so—this is crazy, right? I've never felt like this before."

Whit sighed happily, and nuzzled the rough underside of Clark's chin, testing to see what Clark liked. Clark liked everything. He pressed his hips against Whit and Whit felt how much Clark liked it. He ground against Whit and it almost hurt, his dick was big, and hot, and so hard it was like grinding a steel bar. Clark began riding him, rubbing and thrusting against him, trying hard to get feeling through all the layers between them. It was working just fine.

"Clark, if you keep doing that, I'm going to come—"

"Whit!" Clark sounded shocked, or stunned and Whit thought he'd upset him, until Clark sucked in a sharp breath and shuddered—froze—shuddered again. Whit felt sudden heat against the palm he'd shoved between them. He cupped Clark, felt him twitch and the heat grow, felt his jeans dampen.

"Fuck…" Whit moaned and when Clark finally came back, Whit looked into his dazed eyes, rested his hand over his hard, hard dick and asked him, "Can I?"

Clark nodded, everything about him still soft and loose with orgasm. He licked his lips when Whit unzipped and pulled himself loose from too tight jeans, started stroking. He watched Whit, his eyes loosing their soft focus as they locked on the motion of Whit's hand. He stared so hard Whit felt the weight of it. "Like this, like seeing me? Want to see me come?"

Later, Whit knew he'd die of embarrassment remembering this but right now, Clark's eyes were on him, and the pupils were blown wide, the tip of his tongue slid in and out of his mouth, and Whit was babbling non-stop. "See how hard you make me? Look at that, you're making me wet just looking, god, I imagine your mouth on me and it makes me shoot every time—shit."

Whit felt it, collecting in the bottom of his stomach, pulling his muscles tight, heating his skin, and rushing up, tight hot fast—he cupped his free hand over the tip of his dick, squeezed a little, Clark swatted his other hand away and proceeded to pull an orgasm out of him that hit like a fucking explosion, fast, hard and shattering. He heard Clark gasp, and opened his eyes to see a string of come laced across Clark's mouth, his chin.

 _Fuckfuckfuck._ Whit's body tried to come again but he was already folding, falling into Clark. Long seconds, minutes, hell, it felt like hours before he swam up out of his blissful fog. Clark had one of his clever, enormous hands cradling the back of Whit's skull; Whit's forehead was resting in a puddle of sweat in the dip of Clark's burning shoulder. Whit smelled come and sweat and fresh mown grass…Clark.  
Clark slid off Whitney's lap and was still. He stared at his feet and wrung his hands together until Whit began to worry he was going to wring his fingers right off. He reached out and laid his hand on Clark's knee. "Hey? Okay?"

"I…I feel kind of like…I didn’t mean for it to happen like that, so much, I mean." Clark looked over at Whit. "I feel like I used you or something."

Whit shook his head and squeezed Clark's knee. "If that's true, we used each other, but I can't see it like that. We're. I like to think we're connected. I wouldn't have if I didn’t think we had something, you know?"

"Well," Clark smiled and looked relieved and pleased. "We have been kind of dating for a while. Your seduction technique--what with the hotdogs and all--pretty classy."

Whit exhaled a deeply satisfied sigh and smiled back. "Hey. I have my ways. You stick with me Clark, and it'll be hotdogs and cheap DVDs all the way."

* * * * * *

The sun was shining right into Whit's eyes, he could barely see the hotdogs nestled in their little paper trays when Clark handed them to him.

"Relish, mustard, ketchup, mayo for god's sake, extra onions--someone doesn't want to get kissed tonight—here you go, a disgusting mess, just the way you like it."

Whit beamed and sniffed the hotdogs in something close to ecstasy. "You're mean, yet you bring me hotdogs. This is what we call a conundrum, yes?"

Clark sat next to him, close enough that their knees knocked. "I'm kidding," he whispered. "I don't mind onion flavored kisses. Not yours."

Whit laughed and grabbed Clark's lemonade, took a long drink. "I like that about you Clark, you're very forgiving. So, movie night, or…" He jerked at the sound of a smooth, powerful, engine behind them. A sound he knew very well. "Or are you hanging out at the castle tonight?" It hurt, but he was smart enough to keep out of the way of Clark's friendship with Luthor. He satisfied himself with the knowledge that almost everything Clark had to give was his, but everyone needed friends. Even if the friend was Lex.

Speaking of….

Lex shimmied his way through the summer crowds, miraculously not touching anyone as he came. Whit raised an eyebrow. It was like the man had his own personal force field.

"Clark. And Whitney. What a surprise." Lex's initial pleasure dimmed dramatically when he looked at Whit but Whit didn't care. Much.

"I'll say," Whit said and choked when Clark rammed an unsubtle elbow into his ribs. Damn…he swiped lemonade off his chin and turned to Clark to snarl at him…and caught the look in Clark's eyes as he tracked the stray drops of lemonade working their way over Whit's chin and down his neck. _Oh shit._

Clark was looking so avidly, so intensely, that Whit swore he felt heat on his skin. Clark blinked and Whit gasped, released. He looked at Lex and Lex's eyes were locked on Clark and he looked…kind of sad. Whit would have felt some sympathy; he knew what Lex felt like but nah. Mostly he just felt warm and content and really wanting to be in his crappy apartment driving Clark nuts….

"Well, I can see you're busy, guys. Clark, give me a call, we'll do something. Whit. Whit…take care." Lex smiled. It was soft and sweet, and a little rueful and Whit had no idea Lex had a soft side or whatever it was. Hunh. Well, there had to be something to the man besides acquisition and greed. After all, Clark liked him.

Lex waved and swirled his way back through the crowd. Clark called out, "Bye Lex," and Whit…Whit just watched him go.

fin  
6-22-2010


End file.
